Rose Red: an Everland Ever After Tale

by Caroline Lee

  Copyright © 2016, Caroline Lee

  CarolineLeeRomance@gmail.com

  ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. This book contains material protected under International and Federal Copyright Laws and Treaties. Any unauthorized reprint or use of this material is prohibited. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system without express written permission from the author.

  First edition: 2016

  This work is made available in e-book format by Amazon Kindle at www.amazon.com

  And in paperback format by CreateSpace at www.createspace.com

  Printing/manufacturing information for this book may be found on the last page

  Cover: EDHGraphics

  Contents

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  Other works by Caroline Lee

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  Rose Red

  An Everland Ever After Christmas Tale

  Dedication:

  For you.

  For being excited to read each new Everland tale.

  Merry Christmas, dear reader,

  and best wishes for a very happy new year!

  CHAPTER ONE

  December, 1876

  “Rose White! You’d better not be in there scribbling!”

  Rose slammed the journal closed on top of her pencil, and scrambled to hide it under the stacks of household bills and receipts she was supposed to be in the parlor categorizing. “No, Mama!” Her mother’s deceptively light footfalls sounded out in the hall, so Rose busied herself laying out the lists of last month’s sales and pretending like she’d been studying them for the last hour.

  Mama swept into the parlor, graceful and overbearing as always, in her second-best gown and winter hat. She managed to look perfect even as she collapsed—carefully—onto the settee and began to pull off her gloves. “December is utterly exhausting, isn’t it, my dear?”

  Rose knew that her mother wasn’t actually expecting an answer, and thus didn’t bother responding. Good thing, too, because Mama continued. “The Ladies’ Club meeting went well. Mrs. Bellini was right to start it, and right to make me the Chair.” A long-suffering sigh, and Rose wondered if her mother had been too “exhausted” to hang up her winter cloak, or if it was currently dripping melted snow into a puddle in the foyer for Rose or her sister to clean. “Although I’m not sure how she managed it, now that she’s married to that cripple.”

  “Signore Bellini isn’t crippled, Mama.” He was blind, certainly, but he made the most beautiful music.

  But she should’ve known better than to interrupt her mother. Mama’s expression rarely wavered from the pinched-lip disapproval she usually wore, even though she was very self-conscious of gaining lines around her eyes and mouth. “Rose!” Her gasp would’ve been comical, if it didn’t forewarn some insulting comment that would wound as deep as any barb could. “Are you hunched over those books? Do sit up!” Rose didn’t think she could straighten any more, but she tried. “How utterly embarrassing for me, to be saddled with a daughter who not only refuses to learn proper decorum, but who writes. If you would learn to be more of a lady, as I’ve tried again and again to instruct you…”

  Mama trailed off with a sigh, and Rose dared to hope that was the end of it. But no. “The ladies all asked after you, you know. Wondered why you weren’t attending.” Because I have no wish to spend the afternoon being told I’m inadequate. “I had to make excuses for you again, of course. I hate it when you put me in such a dreadful position.” Rose hadn’t gone, but she hadn’t been invited, either. And that suited her just fine. Her mother didn’t want her or Snow there, and they were happy for the weekly break from Mama’s often-difficult company.

  To distract the older woman from her own inadequacies, Rose tried to steer the conversation back to the meeting. “Did you make any good plans for the Christmas Festival?”

  “Yes.” Mama was frowning, though, eyeing Rose’s dress. “It will be on the twenty-fourth, as always. They requested Snow be in charge of decorating again, and I will of course be overseeing the preparations. You don’t have a job.”

  “I’ll be happy to help where I can.” Everland’s Christmas Festival was the town’s most special celebration all year; like a grander version of the weekly church socials, with a bonfire and fireworks and all sorts of beautiful songs and delicious roast foods. “It’s my favorite time of the year.”

  “I suppose I could allow you to come to next week’s planning meeting, if you could manage to find a gown that doesn’t look like you’ve been rolling in the mud. Really, Rose, if your father could see you…” Mama’s disappointed tone trailed off, and Rose tried not to be hurt.

  Instead, she smoothed a hand over her serviceable skirt, and tried to straighten her shoulders, the way her mother always nagged her to do. “Papa’s inexperience is the reason that we’re—”

  “Don’t you dare talk so disrespectfully about your father!”

  Rose winced at the bite in Mama’s voice, and turned back to the ledgers and papers on the desk. Her hands shook as she pretended to fuss with them, not wanting her mother to see how close to tears she already was. Mama was rarely satisfied with her work, or her appearance, or her contributions, or even her thoughts. Rose had long ago vowed not to let her mother know what sorts of things she wrote in her journals, sure that the older woman would not just disapprove, but forbid her from engaging in anything so unladylike.

  No, Mama wanted Rose—and Snow, if possible—to be a perfect, boring lady.

  Unfortunately, neither of them could afford to be, and still keep a roof over their heads. Papa’s poor investments and mistaken belief that the force of his will alone could command respect out here in Wyoming had landed them in their current pickle. Rose and Snow worked—often behind Mama’s back—to make sure his widow could continue to live life as lavishly as she had back in Alabama.

  For now, though, Rose had to repair the damage she’d caused her mother’s nerves. If she didn’t, many years of practice told her that Mama would pout and sulk and be harsher than usual in her critiques. “I’m sorry, Mama. I know that you must be tired. Why don’t you go rest? Snow bartered for some of Briar Jorgensen’s chocolates that you like so much, and I’m sure that she could bring them up to you.”

  The older woman’s brown eyes narrowed, and her lip pursed. Finally, after a long moment of studying Rose, she nodded and stood, her manner brisk and her gloves slapping against her opposite hand. She didn’t look at all exhausted any more, but Rose knew better than to question. “Snow isn’t totally useless at times, I suppose.” Rose managed not to wince. The only time Mama wasn’t horrible to Rose’s older half-sister was when she was irritated at Rose. “It was miraculous that she could remember my tastes. I confess that I’m quite enamored with Miss Jorgensen’s treats, even if I think that she’s preparing to marry far below her rank. Imagine, marrying a common servant like Gordon MacKinnon!” Rose greatly admired Briar and Gordon’s romance, and how thrilled they both were to be working together to fulfill their dreams, but pressed her lips together tightly to hold in the retort. Mama must’ve realized she wasn’t going to get the argument she wanted, and sniffed. “Very well. You may send Snow up with some chocolate and tea. That would be acceptable.”
>
  “Yes, Mama.”

  Rose watched as her mother swept from the room, her once-red hair carefully powdered in a style so out of date it wasn’t funny. Mama believed that her own hair—red, just like her daughter’s—was the mark of the devil, and far inferior to her husband’s pale-blonde mane. She was determined to ensure that Reginald White’s daughters married blonde men, to sire blonde grandsons for the deceased plantation owner. It was terribly old-fashioned, and a little out of touch with reality, but then…so was Mama.

  Lucinda White was obsessed with propriety, and making an acceptable match for her daughter. Of course, she had very clear opinions on what constituted the “perfect match”, and so far no man in Everland met those requirements. But Mama was content to wait, sure the right man would come along. A man worthy of Reginald White’s only legitimate offspring.

  And if she was honest with herself, Rose wanted to get married, too. At this point, it was just about the only thing she could imagine that would get her out of this house, away from Mama and away from Mama’s Ladies’ Club and Everland. Oh, the ladies in the club were nice enough, but Rose had never become friends with any of them. Had never been allowed to become friends with any of them, thanks to Mama’s high-handed dictates. Rose was to be proper and decorous at all times, and not associate with anyone who wasn’t up to Mama’s strict standards. Which was, of course, nearly everyone. Rose and Snow—who also wasn’t up to Mama’s standards—had to make do with each other as friends, and that was that.

  Of course, being “proper and decorous” was alright, if they wanted to starve. But the two White girls had been going behind Mama’s back for years, in an attempt to keep their home. Snow had her sewing, and Rose kept the hogs out in the barn, which Mama refused to acknowledge as necessary.

  And of course, Rose wrote.

  With another sigh, Rose finished tidying up the papers on the desk, and pulled the pencil from the journal. Even though Mama was gone, there was no use trying to pick up the thread of the story. Rose’s inspiration—and her desire to write—had been squashed by her mother. It wasn’t uncommon.

  Instead, she tucked the journal away between the household ledgers, sure that she’d be able to continue her story about the train robbers again as soon as Mama was resting and inspiration struck again, and went to find Snow in the kitchen.

  After passing along Mama’s requests, and a warning that Snow was once again in Lucinda’s good graces for however short an amount of time, Rose left her older sister putting together a tray. Their jackets were all hanging in the foyer—sure enough, Mama’s cloak was dripping all over the floor, so Rose shoved a rug under it and hoped that it hadn’t damaged the wooden floor—and she pulled down her green one. With her mother occupied upstairs, now was as good a time as any to toss the hogs the dinner slops.

  The sun was setting when she tramped across the snow to the barn. Their cottage stood on the outskirts of town, where Papa had been determined to build a plantation, like he had back home. But he’d died shortly after having the first small barn constructed, and now his widow and daughters used it to house the pigs they raised and sold for meat.

  It wasn’t how Rose had pictured her life going, oh no. She wanted to travel, to see the country… and to write about it. Her publisher back in Chicago told her that she had a “unique voice” when it came to her short stories, but the meager income wasn’t going to pay enough to get her away from these hogs. She had journals full of her attempts at adventure novels, and Snow said they were pretty good. All she needed was to see a little more of the world, and they’d be good enough for publication. As it was, writing scenes about train robberies and gallant lawmen kissing rescued damsels was hard when she barely remembered her only train ride, and had never even met a gallant lawman in a big white hat, much less kissed one.

  The snow seemed to glow in the last of the light, and Rose smiled. It had been her mother’s cruel joke to call her half-sister “Snow”, when her skin was so dark, but it fit the older girl. Perfectly icy and pristine when she needed to protect what was underneath.

  Here, so far from the house, the blanket of white was unmarred. Rose was the only one who ever ventured out to the barn, and since it was behind the house, opposite town, there was no reason for it to be anything but perfect. She stopped a moment, the bucket of slops heavy in her arms, and just admired the white-dusted firs.

  Christmas was only a few weeks away, and although it was frigid, this was Rose’s favorite time of year. Not because she had particularly fine memories of the holiday, but because the town always put on a grand festival, and everyone worked together, and Wyoming was just so beautiful.

  That’s when she noticed the disturbance in the snow, a trampled track leading from the opposite side of the barn. And the drops of red that followed it.

  Blood.

  CHAPTER TWO

  The burning in his leg was excruciating. Barrett Faulkner had no idea how far he’d ridden since the ambush, but thank goodness the horse had been bright enough to find civilization. This barn had loomed out of the gathering dusk; he’d managed to fall out of the saddle into a snowbank, and lead the animal inside. Here, the smell of pigs seemed to make the air warmer, which was a blessing, and he’d sunk down onto a pile of logs in the near-darkness.

  As afternoons go, this wasn’t one of my better ones.

  The bullet had gone into his thigh a good distance above his knee, and gone out the other side. From the pain—it’d nearly made him black out when he was probing around—he figured it had nicked the bone. Luckily, it seemed to have missed the major artery, because he’d been upright for the last few hours and wasn’t dead yet. Nah, the bleeding seemed normal, so that was a small blessing. Now, all he had to worry about was infection, not being able to stem this bleeding, and the fact that he might never walk again.

  And he’d failed to stop Quigg and his boys from robbing that mail coach. All in all, not a banner day.

  Without light of some sort, he wasn’t going to have an easy time dealing with this gunshot wound, either. Well, this was a barn, right? There had to be some kind of tools or lantern or something that he could use. And just as soon as he rested for a bit, he’d find them. Probably. Maybe. Why was he so tired?

  There was a snuffling noise, and something nudged him in the side. It was a pig. He’d managed to prop himself against a pig sty of some sort, and now one of the animals—were all pigs this large?—was nosing at him. Probably trying to find food. Or eat him. Didn’t pigs eat flesh? He stifled a groan; why did he feel like his mind was so full of holes, when it was just his leg? Lack of blood, maybe…

  “Go on, leave me alone.” The pig just nudged him harder, so Bear shifted slightly, each movement sending shooting pains up his leg, and pushed at the pig’s snout. “I’ve got enough to worry about without you bothering me.” Sure as sunrise, that darn pig came right back, trying to nuzzle at him. Bear reached over and grabbed one of its ears, prepared to wrestle the animal away from him, when he heard her voice:

  “Hello?”

  He froze.

  Shoot. His instincts were really gone. Bear had heard the door open, he now realized, but hadn’t reacted. And now there was someone in the barn with him. A woman, which was worse.

  “Hello?”

  What’d she think? That he was just going to announce himself? Bear almost snorted, and tightened his hold on the pig. He’d been so close to stopping the gang that he been plaguing these parts, and a stupid move on his part had gotten him shot. The last thing he needed was word of his survival to get back to Quigg and the others. They’d come looking for him. No, he just needed to lie low until this leg wound healed, and report to his supervisors back in D.C. He didn’t need a nosy farmer—especially a woman—knowing his whereabouts.

  She didn’t take the hint, though. The light in the barn increased slightly when the outer door opened wider. It might’ve been dusk, but it was still brighter outside. Oh shoot, she was coming in.

  “Hello?
Listen, I saw your tracks.” She sounded scared. So why was she coming inside? “I can’t tell what you are, and yes, I realize that it’s probably silly to be yelling into a barn, on the off chance that you can understand me. I mean, if you’re a wounded wolf or something, you’re probably scared and vicious, aren’t you? But these are my hogs, and we need them to not be eaten.” He heard her put something down, and then rustling came from near one of the walls. “At least I haven’t heard too much squealing.” No, the pigs were grunting and shuffling, and even the one in his hold hadn’t seemed to mind Bear’s intrusion. “So I’ll just leave the door open, and hope that you run along, if it’s not too much trouble. I really don’t want to have to come after you with a pitchfork, Mister Wolf.”

  That’s when the light flared, as she put the match to the lamp, and turned to sweep the inside of the barn. She was petite, with big scared eyes and a bunch of red hair. Too pretty to be some farmer’s wife, Bear couldn’t help thinking. But right now, that wasn’t his problem.

  She froze when the light hit him, not at all hidden beside the pen, and he knew what he must look like. No wonder she took a step back, and then another. It must not be a nice surprise, to find a bleeding stranger—one who looks like an outlaw—in one’s barn.

  But the longer they stood like that, her frozen with the lantern raised, him gritting his teeth against the pain in his leg, Bear knew that he had to do something, say something, to get her to leave. To forget she had a wounded man hiding in her barn. “All things considered, ma’am, I’d appreciate it if you didn’t go get that pitchfork.”

  All things considered, it really was miraculous that she didn’t scream and fall over. There was a man in her barn. Why was there a man in her barn? A man who was bleeding, judging from the blood trail she’d followed in. A man who currently appeared to be cuddling with her friendliest hog, judging from the way he had his arm around her. Rose lifted the lantern higher. And oh, look, he had a horse too, munching on the old hay in the corner, still saddled. He’d obviously just arrived, looking for someplace to hide. Because surely, if he’d been a moral man, seeking help, he would’ve ridden to the house?